


The Sound of Revolution

by ryssabeth



Series: Hail to the King [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fantasy, M/M, Prince!Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is--probably--treason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound of Revolution

He doesn’t know why they pick a tavern. Soldiers and guardsmen frequent places such as these, and what the students say smack of treason. But still they meet, and they talk of the deposing of the King and Queen.

Grantaire sits.

And he drinks.

“Enjolras,” Comebeferre—he’s the one with glasses, just to the front, and Devil’s Advocate is his favourite game, “what of the prince? You’re speaking only of the King and Queen—but what about him?”

( _The princess_ , Grantaire thinks, quietly, because thinking loudly would get him attention,  _was given to a convent—what about her, Combeferre?_ )

Enjolras waves his hand as if swatting at a fly—though a fly, he supposes, would be of more concern than he is. “He’s hardly a problem,” and so the point is proven. A smile touches the revolutionary’s lips, lights a candle in his eyes. “Has anyone ever even seen him? He’s barely an heir, much less a threat. There’s no way he can run this state on his own, after the monarchy is overturned.”

Grantaire cannot help but laugh. It’s quiet laughter, hidden in the palm of his hand, and it smells of wine. (But everything of Grantaire’s smells of wine these days, and so that is hardly anything notable.) \

The murmurs of the other tavern patrons rise up, like water, muffling the sounds of the students for a moment or two. When they can be heard again, the one named Feuilly is speaking—one of the wretches from the outer city (he thinks of  _wretch_  with a bitter sort of twist to his lips— _see your breeding has corrupted you like it does everything else_ ) who taught himself to read.

“This is an ambitious project,” he runs a half over red hair, already sticking out haphazardly, stiff with sweat and blacksmith’s grease (or perhaps that is mud from building new homesteads in the city limits—Feuilly does so much, it seems, that it’s hard to keep track). “Are we just talking, Enjolras?”

There is a careful solemnity about the way they speak this time—different from the other nights that Grantaire has spent here at the bottom of a bottle. Or two. Other nights, they laugh and they jest—but a tax has come upon the country, one that Grantaire doesn’t know the purpose of and doesn’t rightly care, not really. (Though he thinks he could—he thinks he could, perhaps, care, a little, if Enjolras would look upon him the way he does his friends. He’s never been looked at in such a way before.)

“No,” and the growl beneath the blonde’s voice sends a quaking up from Grantaire’s boots.  _That_ , he thinks,  _is the sound of revolution_. “No, we’re not just talking anymore.”

Combeferre looks over the rims of his spectacles at Enjolras with two arched brows before he nods slowly. “All right. Then we need to start planning now. This tax will be the beginning of our movement—but patience will be important.” Enjolras holds Combeferre’s gaze for a moment. And then he nods.

(Grantaire’s breath smells like wine—but he hardly looks anything like a prince. He looks as he is. Young enough, unwed, and lazy. He looks like a student with a shirt that has seen better days and breeches stained with charcoal and oil paints.

He looks like someone who would matter to these students.

And so he swallows.)

“Any chance,” he says, thanking the stars in heaven that he can speak without his words sloshing against his teeth, “that you could use an extra helping hand?”

While Enjolras’ lips are working, Grantaire holds his eyes. He watches the surprise blossom and cling to his irises, hovering in his eyes like a cloud. What he says next, well. He supposes that’s what starts this whole thing.

“That depends. What can you do?”

“Not very much,” Grantaire tells him. “But if you can give me a direction, then—well, I can do that.”

Enjolras crosses the space, weaving between the few tables where his friends are collected, and he splays his hand against the wood surface, fingers wide. “You can do that?”

“Yes,” ( _maybe_ , he stipulates. It honestly depends on his feelings that day.) “Do you need the help?”

(He sees Combeferre watching him—and wonders if he’s suspicious. Grantaire doesn’t doubt that he is.)

“Then welcome aboard.”

And this is the beginning of everything.

This is the beginning of the fall of the monarchy.


End file.
